The Script Doctor

By Lincoln Reed

Judy Suarez lit a cigarette and took a drag. Against her left shoulder she cradled a landline desk phone. In her right hand she clenched a screenplay lacerated with pen slashes.

“Hemingway once said to write drunk and edit sober. Honey, you should be writing sober.”

The screenwriter on the other end of the line said something I couldn’t make out. Judy grinned. “The usual fee. Can have it back to you in, say, two weeks? Call me. We’ll get a bite.”

She dropped the phone. Tendrils of smoke wafted from her nostrils, matching her gray hair and dark eyes. “Writers these days lack grit, Daryl. You know what that is? Grit?”

I shook my head. Judy adjusted her thin spectacles and winked. “No matter. It’s good for us. For business.”

I took her lunch order and returned a half hour later, pressing the buzzer for Judy’s office in the seedy section of Hollywood Boulevard. After two flights of stairs and a narrow hallway, I opened the glass door with The Script Doctor painted in black.

“Writers are like grains of sand on Venice Beach,” she’d said. “Every few years or so you’ll find a golden speck. Got to snatch it when you do. All the others? That’s why people like us exist. We help those hacks turn gravel into gold… or at least copper.”

Story alchemy, she called it. Each day, a new wave of writers and prospects would crash into the shores of her office. Judy would work her magic, and I’d answer calls, make coffee, and keep the clients occupied with small talk until Judy was ready for her next appointment.

After I’d returned from lunch that ill-fated afternoon, one of these “grains of sand” appeared at the door. He resembled a thug from Goodfellas—black pants, leather coat, and a white T-shirt. He had a bulldog face and slicked-back hair. Worse yet, he didn’t have an appointment.

“Miz Suarez in?” he asked.

Judy’s voice—locked in a heated call in the next room—reverberated through the wall.

“Listen, kid, it’s urgent.” He muscled past me into Judy’s private office. I glimpsed a shoulder holster under his jacket before the door closed behind him. Pressing my ear to the frame, I tried to eavesdrop.

“I’m not in that line of work anymore, Glenn,” Judy said.

“Don’t have any leads. Want to solve this in-house. No cops. No detectives.”

“Won’t be cheap.”

“Supposed to drive you over.”

The door opened, and I stumbled forward against Glenn. He brushed me aside, smirked, and sauntered out of the office. Judy emerged, leaning on her walking cane, a cigarette bobbing from her lips. “Lock it up and clock out.”

“You’re going… with him?”

“What? You want to tag along?”

I did, but I only shrugged. Judy’s eyes pierced mine. “You come with me… you’re full-time. There’s no going back.”

Deep within Hollywood Hills, the garage door opened to reveal a crashed Maserati MC20. Glenn stood back while Judy hobbled forward, inspecting the car’s dented front bumper and cracked windshield.

She stopped at the driver’s side door. Glenn nodded. “Already swabbed for prints. Nothing.”

Inside the vehicle, a body slumped against the steering wheel. I gagged at the purple gash splitting the young man’s forehead. Judy waved me forward. “Pay attention, grasshopper.”

Snapping her hands into surgical gloves, Judy examined the man’s face, neck, wallet, and ID. She also checked the car’s glovebox. “Glenn, you said this was suicide?”

“Looks that way, but the boss doesn’t like it. Makes no sense. He’d just written Jimmy into his will.”

“Drunk?”

“Doesn’t smell like sauce.”

“Security cameras?”

Glenn motioned as if directing the scene. “Car came in. Garage door closed. That’s all the footage shows. Maid found him this morning.”

Judy pulled at my arm. “What’s the worst sin in a screenplay?”

“Wooden dialogue?”

Judy cursed. “Think plot. What’s missing with this scene? Sober young man, about to inherit a fortune, decides to ram his Maserati into a garage. Seem funny to you?” She turned to Glenn. “Who’s got a key to this place?”

The thug thought for a moment. “It’s off the books. Place the boss brings his flings.”

“Ever heard of a dead man closing a garage door?”

Glenn blinked.

My palms started sweating.

“Characters must have motivation.” Judy crossed her arms. “Glenn, do you recognize this vehicle?”

“Sure. It’s Mrs. Gamboni’s car.”

“Funny… I don’t seem to recall Mrs. Gamboni having children,” Judy said.

Glenn swallowed. “Nobody’s supposed to know.”

“Who is Jimmy’s mother?”

“She’s the maid here.”

Judy’s bony finger tapped the head of her cane like a metronome. “Imagine this sequence, shall we? Mrs. Gamboni learns her husband’s been having a long-time affair with this home’s maid. Finds out they’ve got a son who’s just been written into Daddy’s will. That’d get you antsy, wouldn’t it? So she loans Jimmy her car, makes it look like she wants to start on the right foot.”

“Doesn’t explain the crash,” Glenn said.

I raised a hand. “Maybe someone tampered with the brakes?”

“Then how’d he drive here?” Judy pulled out a cigarette. “I’m thinking Jimmy was killed offsite. Made to look like he was in the driver’s seat.”

Glenn frowned. “How’d you figure that?”

“Check the bruises. He was strangled. See that cut on his head? That’s a knife wound. He would’ve had to go through the windshield to get a laceration like that, but he’s buckled up and the glass is barely cracked. Besides, the airbag never deployed. Jimmy didn’t crash this car himself.”

Judy peeled off her gloves. “Better start investigating Mrs. Gamboni. See where the trail leads from there.”

Back at the office, Judy opened two bottles of root beer.

I sipped slowly. “What’s the mob going to do to me? I know too much.”

“Nonsense! You’re a script doctor now.”

“What’s that mean, exactly?”

Judy smiled. “Story magic, grasshopper. We make plot holes disappear.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a professor, writer, and editor. He holds a BA in film and media production from Taylor University and an MFA in creative writing from Miami University of Ohio. More than 25 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

---

More Stories | Author Website | Twitter